


Crushed Roses

by cortchuzska



Series: Of suns and roses [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cultural Differences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Oberyn injures Willas Tyrell, and thinks of the turmoil brought about by Robert's rebellion, of many young ladies wounded by life, and of the overall vanity of it</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crushed Roses

Wonderful mare. Masterfully trained too.” Prince Oberyn said appreciatively. “Maybe a bit stout. No, actually not really.” Then he saw the mark: Highgarden rose, he resentfully acknowledged. Lord Mace Tyrell's stables were large and renowned in the Seven Kingdoms, but his own, though smaller, were of no lesser fame.

The Reach and Dorne had always had strained relations, to put it mildly. The Tyrells, though of not so high nobility if compared to other Great Houses, considered themselves on a par with the Lannisters, and tried to rival them in wealth and power, but their heart enemy was Sunspear; and despite their different customs, of which Dornish people prided themselves, gained them an ill fame throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and almost contempt, a Dornish beggar would deem himself higher born than any Tyrell.

“Who's riding her? A Tyrell?” Lord Randyll Tardy only rode stallions; and it was too an exquisite mount for lesser bannermen.

“Young Willas, the heir of Highgarden.”

“Willas Tyrell? A rose sprout, greener than Highgarden sigil ?”

“It's his first tournament, but he's said to be a brilliant rider.”

To Prince Oberyn it took more than mere brilliance to join such a tourney. Jaime Lannister still won his first one: Lord Mace was trying as usual to fit in Tywin Lannister's boots... He sneered; he would see soon how Willas Tyrell fared.

He easily won his first opponent; beginner's luck, Oberyn thought at first. It was no luck; Willas was more than talented, he was swift, strong and deft; he did not just fight, he _danced,_ to Oberyn the true mark of a knight. He eagerly hoped to break some lances with him; he would gladly show him some tricks.

The Prince of Dorne was an elegant fighter who could effortlessly set his spear wherever he wanted to, and despite his hot-tempered reputation, a cold-blooded one. Wasn't he a Viper, after all? Deadly efficient if so he decided; anger always made his mind clearer, but the sheer beauty of the game for the sake of it fired him up more than bloodlust.

Oberyn entered the lists, couched his lance and spurred his horse to gallop; his opponent's bridles, studded with golden flowers, glinted in the sun, while the Tyrells' green caparison wavered wildly as they drew closer. A light shaft blazed against him, he squinted his eyes enough to peer at Willas slightly leaning on the left, aimed almost bedazzled at the roses row shining sideways and tightened grip on his horse... The jolt: spears crashed and shields clanged; Willas Tyrell's one swayed, and his dun mare staggered while he strove to cling to saddle; and almost succeeded, but the leaf-shaped buckles burst open, and he felt onto the dirt. The horse stumped, trampled him and toppled.

“That's Highgarden for you: too fashion, too flashy.” Prince Oberyn wheeled his steed on to the next joust.

\--o--

Oberyn, outside his tent, was splashing himself from a cold water basin after the day when his maester came to him.

He was not concerned about ill health as his brother Doran, and the reasons why his maester so often followed him were quite different. Whenever feasible, he strayed looking for precious books worthy of his library, and his maester's advices were helpful, but mostly he enjoyed travelling with someone he could hold not trivial conversation with. Prince Oberyn himself had been a Citadel man, and forged himself some chain links; maester Ysgrad was almost a friend to him, and books were mere pretence.

This time he had heard of an seemingly rare trove, and he had even brought an illuminated treatise on falconry – a favourite of his - to barter. There was no need of his maester: to his disappointment, Oberyn could easily see by himself it was but a fake.

His maester looked worried.

“Not even a scratch.” Oberyn snickered.

The maester gravely replied.“Even the slightest one can fester.”

“And must be dressed, I know, and I could do it myself; but it's not my nick that's worrying you, maester Ysgrad.”

“It's Willas Tyrell, my Prince. His was not just a scratch. They have not yet decided what to do with the heir to Highgarden.”

“Is it that serious? We need to flight ravens to Sunspear soon.” Doran, ruling Prince of Dorne, wouldn't have been pleased.

“I already did.”

“Have you been to his tent?”

“I have; but they didn't let me in.”

Oberyn guessed why: he was his maester. Besides, there were too many 'they'.

“Who's the maester in charge here?” He asked.

“Maester Arsyn, a brilliant youth from the Citadel.”

Ysgrad would not openly state disapproval of his fellow maesters; but it was all too clear what was going on: too many of them idly consulting, and no one doing a damn thing. Highly esteemed professionals too afraid to tarnish their shiny reputations with any mishap involving the heir of Highgarden; and the one who officially should decide what to do, had no experience nor authority, and no one heeded him. Had Willas not been Lord Mace's first born son, the young maester's job would have been long over.

They would rather do nothing, and whatever happened then, he was the one to blame.

“Let's go now: we have had enough of brilliant youth, as green as grass, for today.” Prince Oberyn took his spear.

\--o--

“If no one herehas the guts to take care of him, my maester will do.”

His notoriety could be of some use, he knew. The maesters gathering outside the Tyrells' pavilion flinched back and he stepped forward.

Lord Vance was standing before the tent, and obviously refused to let them in.

“You'll not pass.” He shouted angrily at him, and called for his men. “The Tyrells will be informed of what's happening here.”

“Of course they will, and I'd be obliged if you personally could report Lord Mace what befell his son, while maesters were so busy discussing cultured arguments and doing nothing at all about his heir.”

“Anyone here volunteers to treat Willas Tyrell?” No one dared to answer.

“I'm the only one, apparently, who cares about the boy.” Oberyn forced. “So they have no reason to stay here; they are just getting in the way. Bid them to go.”

The young maester was looking a bit frightened, but somewhat relieved, at them.

Maester Ysgrad pressed. “If your maester requires any help, I'll gladly assist him. My Lord, it's my Prince's interest Willas Tyrell to be cured at best.”

“I can't let you in, maester. I'm responsible here.”

“I suppose it should occur you it is your interest as well, my lord.” Oberyn did not mind hiding his impatience.

“If you still hold any qualm, join the maesters inside the tent, and set your guards outside, and look for yourself and check everything to your heart content.” He gazed at Lord who took the bait. “I will enter as well, to make sure no one harasses nor hinders my maester.”

\--o--

Willas was feebly wailing.

They began their work. Lord Vance gagged, and fled from the tent, as easily foreseeable. He could revel in carnage but not endure the hideous healing job. He remembered Elia; their mother's maester said he would prefer any time a frail girl over a grown man to help him, and often asked for his sister. Oberyn was bemused that the maester, a Northerner, acknowledged not only that women could do something, but even _better_ than men. Mayhap his long stay with the ruling Princess of Dorne softened him. Later, at the Citadel, he realized he had been right: some of his fellows fainted at their first lessons. He never did.

“Would you please keep him still, my Prince?

“Call me Oberyn, maester Arsyn, and don't be afraid to order me.”

Willas Tyrell, though seriously injured, and weakened, was still strong, and Oberyn's taut muscles were a most welcome help.

He hoped it was not too late. If Willas died, they would blame him, and of course his poisoned spear, when it barely touched the shield, and he only bothered poisoning it in on special occasions, the tourney at hand not being one: he usually just oiled his suit of armour, as everybody else.

Another charge added on his ill fame: because Dornish people were too different and too proud of being so.

“Cut his breeches.”

“The boot now - careful.”

“Far worse than it should be. Too much time wasted.”

Men whose only pleasure was slaughter called Oberyn vicious and cruel, when he despised unneeded bloodshed. He held no respect of women, no honour, and to them their own wives were lesser than brood mares. He was the irresponsible one, when they begot bastards without even knowing their names; but he raising his own daughters at Sunspear court was regarded as a shameful scandal. Even that steadfast virtue iceberg of a Stark raised his Snow at Winterfell, and that was credited to his unyielding sense of honour and duty. Poor Ashara: for Lord Stark was an honourable man.

“The knee is shattered.”

“Bone splinters to be quickly removed, the best we can.”

The young maester knew his trade, and got ready his instruments.

Poor Ashara! Alone, frightened, in a lonesome castle, waiting for bad news: her brother Arthur the finest knight in the Kingsguard, Eddard, leader of the rebellion, previously her paramour and now the Stark - even if the two words clashed - whose child she was bearing.

“Milk of the poppy; and clean gauzes.”

They had been close, if only for a short time. Had he knew, the Water Gardens had room aplenty for a Dayne and a Sand; maybe she would be still alive, and her boy playing with other children, but he was not even in Dorne then: he FLED. His brother should have thought about it, but Doran thought too much, and Ashara was too involved with both parties in the war – as the Martells were not! Outraged as the Baratheons and still too well connected to the Targaryens.

“If only we began earlier... the longer the time we wait, the weaker he gets.”

“Can we still save his leg?”

“Not his knee, I'm afraid.”

“Still strong enough to endure what we have to do, if we are fast.”

“We should be faster: there are three of us.”

Once again, they toiled on Willas Tyrell's wounds.

She bore Lord Stark a child, and shortly after committed suicide, and they called it baby blue; and he had deserted her, of course because of honour, to honour his older brother's betrothal, not even his own. Queer sense of honour indeed, in Oberyn's opinion: forsaking poor Ashara, to marry some unknown girl in your dead brother's stead. A girl who likely didn't care that much about the eldest brother her father had chosen for her, and nothing at all about the scarcely met before younger one, and who if let to herself could have as well favoured someone else: the Seven Kingdoms sang loud praise of the Tully girls' beauty and their suitors' train was as long as the Kingsroad. Lord Stark needed the Riverrun support, that was it, so he didn't tarry and paid the price Hoster Tully requested: Ashara Dayne abandoned and her child a bastard only bargain collaterals.

Beauty soon passes while marriage lasts forever; now Catelyn was freezing in the North, and Lysa, so shy, so young, so graceful, married to an old man, barren, her beauty quickly withering.

“No use in overdoing.”

“It's about time we swathe him.”

It had been Mace's fault: he let his heir joust. The late Princess of Dorne, their mother, would never have allowed Doran to tilt so young, and even later on, only seldom: and not out of maternal fear, since she never hold Oberyn back – as if it had been possible. His brother didn't allow himself to resent about it, nor seemed overly eager to, despite being a well trained spearman as befitting to a Dornishman: he knew his duty as well, and instead Doran himself taught Oberyn how to ride a horse, how to hold a lance.

“We can only wait, and hope for the best.”

Willas risked his life for his father's and maesters' vain pride. No less nonsensical and futile had been Robert's rebellion; Lyanna Stark – the cause of it all – was dead, nor Robert, the supposed winner, nor Rhaegar, dead as well, could have her anymore; and if compared to others – Elia, Ashara, Catelyn and Lysa – she was not even beautiful. Still, they all enjoyed the clear light of spring fresh mornings.

Oberyn tossed away bloodstained gauzes.

The Lannisters, who did not even take part in it, were the real winner of Robert's rebellion; and now Cersei was the Seven Kingdoms Queen – no doubt, the most beautiful one; and as blazing hot, as harsh summer scorching sun.

\--o--

Young Tyrell slowly recovered. Maester Arsyn had grown some spine and did not allow him to travel before his wounds healed.

When Doran bid him back, before departing Oberyn left Willas his falconry book, to keep him good company while he was getting better; then he vaulted upon his horse back. The heir to Highgarden would not dance any more, not even at his wedding ball.

  
  


 

  
  


 


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